


Grow Up.

by oronka (Zzzara)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 17:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zzzara/pseuds/oronka
Summary: “Can’t stand the silence. I need to speak to you.”I stare at the words that stare back at me. The yellowish piece of paper, torn out of the notepad...What's going through Oliver's head after receiving Elio's note.





	Grow Up.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt ever to write anything, and English is not my native language - so…excuse me for the mistakes (I don't have a beta).  
> I've never thought I might write anything. But this thing had just sprung to my mind, so I had to write it down.  
> Thanks for taking your time for reading.

 

**_“Can’t stand the silence. I need to speak to you.”_ **

  
I stare at the words that stare back at me.

The yellowish piece of paper, torn out of the notepad; careless scrawl.

The mundanity of it strikes me as anticlimatic: Here, I hold in my hand - the end and the beginning of all my twisted cravings, yearnings, stupid actions and shattered self-restraint. They are all laid bare in front of me - my thouhgts, his thoughts, back to my thoughts, this little game like the footsie under the table whilst on the surface everyone is keeping their face; until they are not. All this results in the lined piece of paper and a few words, which I picked up off the floor, on my way to the bathroom for a morning piss.

Now what? 

The thud of my heart is making a statement.I shake off my stupor. What am I supposed to do? Nothing, of course. I know myself. 

Just pretend nothing’s happened. 

The ridiculousness of my presumption strikes me and I scoff: There’s nothing to pretend, because  ** _nothing_** ’s happened; you are an idiot, Oliver - he needs to  ** _talk_**. 

Of course he does, I can’t blame him, after I’ve all but jumped on him in the berm. The boy doesn’t know what he wants; and I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of. Yet.

The talk is fine. There’s nothing wrong with a talk.

Should I write him an answer? 

Yes. 

I’m still standing by the door like an idiot. 

I sit at the desk. I take a piece of paper out of my notepad. I write: 

_“Okay, let’s talk”._

No.  _“Okay”_  is condescending. No need to give him a feeling as though I’m going to talk down to him. 

I rewrite: 

_“Let’s talk.”_

And? Should I be more specific? Define the time and place?When and where? After breakfast. I’ll find him at his usual place by the pool. Fine. 

 _“After breakfast, by the pool.”_  I add.

That looks just dumb. I can find him by the pool anyway, no written invitation required. I am relieved there’s no need in a reply. 

I imagine him delivering this note: creeping along the corridor, crouching in the dark, slipping the piece of paper under my door, hastily retreating to his room. If he wanted a civil talk, why do it secretly, like a thief beware of being caught?Whatever it is he wants from me, it cannot be given in the casual daylight.

I am back to where I have begun. My face is flaming. What should I do? What do I want to do? I wanna be good. I know myself.

I hear the door of his bedroom opens and closes, his light footsteps retreating down the corridor. Barefoot, he steps almost silently; but I’ve become so attuned to him that I’d recognise the sound of his feet anywhere. Or maybe it’s just I’m so used to be aware of his presence in any given moment.

  
Maybe he wants just a talk, anyway.

I take another piece of paper. 

_“What do you want to talk about?”_

I’ll slip it back under his door. And then what? We’ll proceed by exchanging letters back and forth by under_the_door-mail ? This is beyond idiotic, you need to grow up, Oliver.

I take his note, and under his own words, I write:

  
**_“Grow up. I’ll see you at midnight.”_ **

  
I breathe. I wash my face. I get dressed. I leave my room, heading quietly to his door, opening it without a sound. 

I look around. Where to put it so he’d spot it immediately? It is not too late to back out,  leave the room, pretend that nothing’s happened. Proceed on terms we’re so used to by now. Say nothing. We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.

  
I place the note on the table, atop the music sheets he’d been transcribing, near his headphones.

  
As I walk down the stairs, I feel the slightest tremor in my hands. The tingling of fear; excitement; twist of anxiety.

I’m almost sure I’ll regret it.

I almost don’t care. 

***

**[My Tumblr Blog [oronka]](https://oronka.tumblr.com) **

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinions with me in the comments below if you want :)  
> Tell me how you came across this fic, I'm really interested to know!


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